Post #5 – Women’s Memoirs, ScrapMoirs – Matilda Butler and Kendra Bonnett
Note: It is our pleasure to publish Rigmor Munkvold’s treasured family story and recipe just as she arrives back in Norway to visit her family and friends. We know she enjoys sharing this remembrance with you as much as with her Norwegian relatives.
By Rigmor Munkvold
I was three years old the first time Pappa took me fishing. I don’t remember much, but he told me stories about our trips together. I received my first fishing pole when I was five years old; that I do remember. But I did not have a hook on the line until I was seven.
In those early years, Pappa would weight down the line so I could practice throwing. “You have to learn to throw well before you earn a lure on your line,” he would say. My guess is he didn’t want to spend all his time untangling my fishing line from the birch and pine trees. We used to fish at a large lake, Lavangsvatnet, that bordered my grandparents’ property, a small farm in a place called Stuness in the northern reaches of Norway.
The year I graduated to a hook on my line was the same year I caught my first salmon. It was one of the greatest moments of my young life. I remember how carefully Pappa and I brought the salmon in to shore. Neither of us wanted to lose my first fish, and I certainly didn’t want it to be the big one that got away, something all fishing men talk about. My heart was racing and my hands were shaking. “Oh, Pappa. I’m so excited.” As I landed the great salmon, at that moment, I became a bona fide fishing girl.
As any good fishing story goes, the size of my first salmon grew larger the more I told the story. Pretty soon it was almost as big as I was. I believe Pappa kept adding a few inches to the salmon as well each time he told the story. Beginning with that first salmon, Pappa always clipped a small marker on the fish I caught so that we would know it was mine. Sometimes, there were more marked salmon than I could remember catching. I think he cheated, but I was fine with that.
It’s not surprising that salmon became my favorite food. I’d eat it baked, cooked in water with bay leaves, smoked or made into gravlax. I loved the way Pappa would prepare salmon. Cooking and preparing fish feasts was his way of showing how much he loved his family.
Pappa’s gravlax was highly prized in our family, but my favorite was his smoked salmon. Was it the flavor? Was it because we spent so much time together smoking it? This was not just any smoked salmon, it had to be caught and smoked by Pappa. There was a certain bragging right that went with this. He would fillet the salmon, cure it in salt for a few days and then smoke it in one of his contraptions.
He built several smokers over the years, but the one I loved the most started with an old wood-burning stove with one open hole for cooking on the top. Next, he cut a hole in the bottom of a discarded four-foot-tall, wooden cabinet. The hole was cut to fit over the cooking hole on the stove. He cut a second hole in the top of the cabinet, directly over the one in the bottom. Then he attached the cabinet to the top of the stove. As a final step, he fitted a four-foot, metal pipe into the top hole so the smoke could enter the cabinet and escape out the pipe.
While it was not much to look at, Pappa’s smoker flavored salmon to perfection. This particular smoking contraption’s resemblance to junk, however, was not lost on my mom. From the time its design was in the planning stage, she gave Pappa strict instructions that it had to be hidden behind an old shed in the back of our yard. “It’s an eyesore for the whole neighborhood,” she said with a great show of mock disapproval. Pappa teased her right back: “Well, maybe if you had more imagination, you would see it for what it is—abstract art.” It was all in good nature, but even I have to admit that you really had to stretch your imagination to the limit to see the beauty in his work.
I looked forward to the smoking time, which was an all-day process. We rose early in the morning to gather juniper branches. To light a small fire, we put kindling wood in the stove, then some moist cedar chips and the juniper branches on the top. There was a whole science to managing the fire and creating just the right amount of smoke. Pappa controlled the smoke with wet juniper branches. Too hot and it would cook the salmon, too cold and the salmon would not smoke. The fish were hung from the top of the wooden cabinet on a wire string. The smoke passed through the cabinet and out the chimney pipe.
Pappa watched over the fire like a lioness watching over her newborn cubs, always keeping an eye out for possible danger. The right amount of smoke and heat are the two most important factors in a good smoked salmon. I spent many hours with him; we sat around the smoke house telling stories and drinking coffee and hot chocolate. There was also time for a nap here and there. After the salmon were smoked, Pappa placed them in a small cage made of very fine mesh netting to keep the flies out. The cage hung from a big birch tree for a few days, so most of the fat could drip off.
When a salmon was ready to eat, Pappa made finely scrambled eggs with fresh dill and chives. I can smell the savory herbs even as I write. He then put the scrambled eggs in a small round mold with a hole in the center and chilled this for a couple of hours. After he unmolded the eggs, he filled the hole in the middle with a spread consisting of whipped cream, fennel seeds and sour cream mixed together and strained through cheesecloth. Next he created paper-thin cucumber slices using a Norwegian cheese slicer. These he formed into small flowers.
When everything was prepared and ready, Pappa carefully arranged the scrambled eggs and creamed spread in the middle of a large plate, followed by thinly sliced salmon in two layers around the eggs. Then he garnished the plate with the cucumber flowers, tomato slices and capers. It was almost too beautiful to eat. Mom’s contribution to the feast was her freshly baked, whole wheat bread right from the oven. The scents of the smoked salmon mingled in the air with the comforting aroma of Mom’s bread, the only accompaniment needed with Pappa’s dish. “Tonight we are eating Rigmor’s salmon,” Pappa announced on occasion. I just beamed with pride. What a treat. Between the preparation and my growing anticipation, I spent days salivating over the feast to come.
And I never grew tired of salmon. At 21, I joined the Merchant Marines as a radio operator. Every time I returned home from my trips at sea, my first meal would be smoked salmon. It did not matter what time of the day or night I arrived home. Even at 2 in the morning, Pappa had smoked salmon and white wine waiting for me. And always he personally had caught and smoked the featured salmon. Anything else was unacceptable.
Years later, after I moved from northern Norway to northern California, Mom and Pappa would come to visit. He always “smuggled” a smoked salmon to me in his suitcase. After big hugs and tears of joy at the gate, we’d race full speed to the luggage pick-up for his suitcase. He could not relax till we were in the car. I understood his urgency since my mom had forewarned me as to what was up. “I am just letting you know,” she would say with a flair for the dramatic, “just in case you have to bail us out of prison.” Then she admonished: “But don’t let your dad know I told you. It’s a surprise.” I always made a big deal out of the moment when Pappa unveiled the smoked salmon. He’d unpack his suitcase and give me this huge package of tin foil. I think he must have used two rolls of foil. He was so afraid that the custom agent would smell the salmon and open his suitcase.
In 2000, my husband and I celebrated Christmas with my dad in Spain. He liked staying in Spain during the cold months in Norway. My mom had passed away 13 years before so I tried to spend as much time as I could with him. True to his passion, Pappa managed to smuggle smoked salmon into Spain. I think The Fishing God was looking out for him on his smuggling adventures. My dad would have been devastated had he not been able to bring me the gift of salmon. And so to this day, when I eat smoked salmon, I remember all the good times with Pappa—our great fishing and salmon smoking adventures, and our deep affection for one another. While I’ll never have smoked salmon like his again, I’m grateful for all the years I was able to enjoy this delicacy, a symbol of shared love. I am truly blessed.
Pappa’s Gravlax
Note: Fish to be cured should be deep frozen the day before it is treated to kill bacteria. Defrost the day you cure it. Clean and fillet the fish. Remove as many of the small bones as possible.
Ingredients:
For each 2 pounds of fish fillet, allow:
2 T salt
1 T sugar
1 t coarsely ground pepper
1 bunch fresh dill
Mix salt, sugar and pepper. Finely chop the dill. Sprinkle a little of the salt mixture in the bottom of the plate. Spread a layer of the dill on the salt and lay a fish fillet, skin side down, on top. Sprinkle the salt mixture and another layer of dill and place the next fillet on top, with the skin side up. Sprinkle more of the salt mixture and another layer of dill. Place a second plate on top and weight it down with a brick or other heavy object. Let the fish stay at room temperature for a couple of hours until a brine is formed. Refrigerate for 3 to 4 days, turning the fish twice a day.
Gravlax Sauce
2 T prepared mustard
1 T vinegar
1 T sugar
1/2 t pepper
1/2 c oil (olive oil or canola oil)
Chopped fresh dill
Mix mustard, vinegar and sugar. Gradually add oil, stirring well between each addition. Add fresh dill before serving.
